The Dance
by T1gerCat
Summary: A couple in the making on a night out.


The Dance

I've been staring at you all through dinner. I'm not quite sure what it is about this particular night, but I know what it feels like. It feels like desire; like an aching hunger; electricity and heat.

We sit inconveniently in the center of the dark room; surrounded by a sterile arrangement of tables. The dull hum of strangers' conversations hangs in the air, finally dying down as the house band drifts into another sleepy jazz number. I watch as you carefully finish off the last of your wine.

The candle in the centerpiece struggles to stay alive; dancing in your big, beautiful eyes. You sit heavily in your chair with a week's worth of stress in your shoulders, close your eyes, and listen to the music, absentmindedly running your fingers through the wispy hairs at the nape of your neck. I think to myself about how that's one of my favorite spots, and how it's connected to a number of tender points along your throat and collarbone that I enjoy very much.

The wine is working. You gently nod in time to the down-tempo beat, unaware of my observation. Your hand lingers on your shoulder, softly kneading a tense cord of muscle, as I stand, and take a quiet step towards you, gently catching your wrist. Your eyes question mine, but only for a second, then you understand.

We weave carefully around two tables and out onto the small dance floor; alone. I hold you close, and we ease into the rhythm. Your arms wrap lazily around my shoulders and my hands meet at the small of your back. You lay your head on my chest; a small smile creeping onto your face. I longingly drink in the scent of you over and over. Slowly, but deliberately, my fingertips wander around the back of your dress. As always, it is nearly impossible to be this close to you - to be touching you - without your proximity inspiring an urgent need to touch you as much as possible; your hair, your skin, your mouth, your body. My fingers gingerly trail along the seams of the fabric, tracing the contours of your torso. I take another drag of your enticing aroma, and feel a subtle wash of clean, cool energy flow between us.

You sway to the music; gradually freeing yourself of next week's exams, the temperamental serial killers you assist the FBI in catching and I assist in them ending on our dinner table.

Your limbs hang on my shoulders heavily, and you are blissfully lost in the comfort of darkness, sound, and motion; unaware that I currently find myself loitering somewhere between desire and action. You see, I haven't just been staring at you all through dinner; I've been wanting you. Wanting to touch you and kiss you. Wanting to taste you. You dance oblivious, but not for long.

I lower my head slightly and my cheek brushes against your ear. My lips instinctively part, eager to seek out that velvety soft lobe and close around it. I continue instead to sink my mouth towards the delicate arc of your left shoulder, and stop just short of contact. You can feel my breath on your skin. I can feel the warmth of your flesh.

I restrain myself with quiet difficulty, but the intent is clear, and you almost unconsciously arc your spine and cant your head slightly, presenting me with a swath of soft, sweet-tasting flesh that's nearly impossible to resist. We sway for a few more beats and my fingers now impatiently linger at the small of your back. They don't want to linger; they want to explore - further down over the curving slope of your glorious rear end, all the way down your shapely legs to your pretty painted toes and back up to rest between your creamy thighs.

My fingers want to tuck under the lacy boundary of your panties to stroke and tease your warm, moist skin, and I don't blame them. It's all I can think about.

My subconscious swims through dreamy images of your lovely figure splayed out on a bed of blue satin, nearly nude. Your body beckons me and I answer with determined enthusiasm. With limbs entwined, we very soon find ourselves consuming each other in a near frenzy of passion and lust. Our lips crush against each other again and again. Our bodies writhe and grind. Hands grope and grasp for purchase on slick flesh. My teeth scrape against your collarbone as your nails dig into my back. You breathe in ragged sighs as my mouth closes over one bre-

Back on the dance floor, back in the real world, I have become sheepishly aware of my desire as it shamelessly presents itself against the tender flesh of your thigh. A split second of shyness is eclipsed by the nearly imperceptible tightening of your arms around me. One of your hands finds it's way to the back of my head, and pushes it down to finally connect my lips with your soft, sweet skin. We hang entwined like this for a moment until I part them slightly and plant a warm dry kiss at the peak of your collarbone. I debate for second, and then gently nibble your shoulder once, then again; squeezing my arms around you. You inhale deeply, and I feel your body against mine. The swell of your breasts presses into me gently, and our legs just barely overlap. We both feel a slight rise in temperature prickling across our bodies. I begin to pull away, before I get myself in trouble, when I suddenly feel your hot breath at my ear. With a gentle sigh and a smile, you whisper

"I want you too Hannibal"

It is applause, of all things, that pulls us out of our slumber. We make our way back to the table on wobbly legs, hand in hand. I pause briefly to pay the check and we head for the door, drunk with desire and promises of things to come.

The song may be over, but the night is young, and we've got one more dance ahead of us. One of these days I will out us and watch my rival men's expression darken at the realization that you belong to me and I belong to you my Alana.

The end


End file.
